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February 27, 2002
Water bugs skimming across the calm river water. Long, narrow trunks with eight colorful oars. Pushing and lunging ahead in a constant rhythm. Dozens of them are in the water, early morning, practicing for the Head of the Charles. I go down and watch.

I have a terrible crush on the second oar.

She’s usually unaware that I go to the river to watch her. Occasionally, standing on one of the bridges, I shout my encouragement. She cringes, crinkles her nose out of embarrassment. Her friends won’t stop asking about me. She’s keenly aware of my crush. It went unfulfilled.